


Santa 47

by ArtHistory



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Food Kink, Gen, Inspired By The Santa Clause (Movies), Instant Weight Gain, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: Agent 47 is hired to interrupt a Christmas Party and eliminate a target as the Jolly Fat Man himself. Unfortunately, in getting a Santa Suit, he may have invoked a certain Clause...Probably the biggest stuffing I've ever written, followed by instant weight gain. Fun stuff!
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Santa 47

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know you can knock out the ACTUAL SANTA in Hitman? You can put on his suit and everything.
> 
> For those of you that had your weight gain kink awakening from "The Santa Clause", this one's for you my loves.

“Good evening, 47.Your destination is the High Museum Holiday Auction in Atlanta, Georgia, organized by Moss Corp, a shell company for an international blackmail ring. Your target is Moss Corp CEO Isaiah Dubois, former bioengineer turned hacker, whose masterful ability to disrupt information systems has made him and his fake company essentially untouchable. Mr. Bubois accesses a secure network and shuts it down from the inside out. One hacker wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but the CIA has received word that Mr. Dubois has infiltrated their systems, and is planning on exchanging the names of no less than 200 undercover agents for a cool 500 million tonight, during the party’s fireworks display.. Worse, it appears Mr. Dubois is privately funding a number of armed, militant groups within the United States. That amount of money will make a lot of impact, 47, and in a very negative way. Our intel notes that Mr. Dubois is very good friends with the Director of the museum, Annabelle Louis, who is allowing Mr. Dubois to meet in the museum’s Executive Suite. The layout of the suite is simple. There’s the main room where the party is occuring, a breakroom to one side that’s been converted to a changing area for the Santa performer, and a security room flanking the main room’s opposite side. A keycard for the entire suite will be in Miss Louis’ office. Your mission is to eliminate Isiash Dubois at this highly public event before the fireworks go off, and make your escape. The clock is ticking 47, oh, and Merry Christmas. Good luck.” Diana said, signing off as Agent 47, premiere assassin, casually walked up 16th Street.

Agent 47 moved like a panther on the prowl as he easily glided from the pavement of 16th Street, up and over the iron bars of the fence, and strolled across the grounds of the High Museum of Art. Patrons of the arts held hands, sipped hot apple cider, and eagerly munched on a veritable buffet of Christmas cookies, which appeared to be in every corner and on every floor of the towering museum. 47’s thick, meaty thighs carried him with ease across the grass and into the museum, the assassin moving faster as two couples exited the venue, his narrow, incredibly trim waist making it easy to glide between the men, snatching the entrance ticket from one’s hand as he entered. 47 readjusted his suit as the door clicked closed behind him. Gloved hands smoothed over his broad, muscular pecs tapering into a cut six-pack beneath his unbuttoned, black suit jacket. The stylish, white button-up did nothing to hide the bald man’s handsome figure, with the pop of red that was his tie allowing Agent 47 to be just attractive enough to be...invisible. A head turner, for sure, but not someone you’d give more than a passing glance. 

Unfortunately for the guard near Miss Louis’ office, a second glance may have been needed.

Dragging the guard’s unconscious body inside, 47 straightened to look at no less than 15, framed polaroids on the wall. In each one, an adult Isaiah Dubois was posing, eagerly, on the lap of the one and only Santa Claus. Each of the jolly fat men looked remarkably amused, and Isaih looked extremely distracted, giving a hearty thumbs-up to the camera each and every time.

47 swore he heard a tiny voice in his head say ‘Opportunity Revealing.’

“Ah, it would appear your target has a bit of a running joke with Annabelle Louis. Every year Dubois sits on Santa’s lap for a holiday-centric polaroid. The High Museum appears to have hired two Santas this year, one for the main portion of the museum, and one for the party in the Executive Suite. This disguise could get you very easy access.”

47 was already moving as Diana signed off, not bothering to change into the guard’s uniform before as he grabbed the Executive Suite key card.

One elevator ride later, ticket in hand, he was moving into the decadent top floor of the museum. Every wall was a window overlooking a dazzling city skyline, the tops and bottoms of each pane of glass kissed with white lights. A tree in the far corner almost buried beneath presents, the wrapped boxes spilling out and around to a massive, bright red and white throne clearly meant for the fat man himself. A few elves shuffled about nearby, rearranging boxes at the photographer's demand. One through a nearby door, perhaps a dressing room. And if 47 had assumed the Christmas Cookie Buffet downstairs was endless, well, this one was frankly  **criminal** . Stretching across nearly the entire suite was a mountainous buffet of every type of Christmas sweet imaginable. Bifurcating the room in its glory, a cookie, a slice or cake, a mug of cocoa was simply always within arms reach.

The smell was decadent, but too sweet, too rich for the assassin’s tastes as he moved his way through the crowd, disappearing through the door as the elf left, the dwarf loudly proclaiming that he was going on a smoke break. It was, indeed, a dressing room, but clearly had been converted from another one of the museum’s staff rooms. Two large, white couches. A small table with a bowl its center voerflowing with Christmas cookies, even a roaring fireplace, complete with a few stockings. 47, through his sharply angled, perpetually sour face didn’t show it, found himself charmed by the display. Whoever had been hired to place Santa on this floor had not yet arrived, 47 assumed, given the fake beard that was sitting on the coffee table next to the cookies, but-

Oh.

There, in front of the fireplace, was a remarkably jolly, red-suited, fat man. 47 hadn’t noticed him there just a split second before. It was almost like he appeared like...magic. The air was rich with the smell of a freshly cut pine tree, and was that the sound of...sleigh bells? 

No matter. 

In a moment 47’s forearm was around his neck. 

The chubby, old man only struggled for a moment before losing consciousness and dropping to the floor. In a flash the muscular, bald assassin was dragging the overweight man behind the room’s sofa, his gloved hands brushing over the remarkably thick, beautifully made, crimson fabric of the man’s suit. It was almost decent, smooth as butter beneath his bare fingers as 47 slipped off his gloves. His gloves were followed by his tie, his jacket, his button-up, and then his trousers, each folded neatly next to the man as 47 stripped him in kind. Catching the two of them in a nearby mirror, 47 couldn’t stop himself from giving the world’s smallest smirk.

The man’s belly  **soared** into the air above him, rising and falling with his breaths. He doubted the man could even see his chubby toes around it, especially laying down. Hell, he probably couldn’t even see around the massive set of  **tits** that bloomed so  **decadently** from what had clearly been a rather muscular chest. He’d packed on weight in a remarkable amount of time, given the  **fury** of **bright red stretch marks** tracing out from his  **cavernous** navel,  **kissing** the  **overflowing flab** that were the love handles  **bulging** up around his boxers, which were strained across a wide, round,  **fat** ass and thighs so thick 47 knew the man couldn’t really walk, so much as  **waddle** his way around, likely from one buffet to another.

47, on the other hand.

Caught in a moment of vanity, 47 smoothed a bare hand along his own, essentially nude from. By comparison, 47’s body had no fat on it, the clone having been designed to be the perfect killing machine. That meant his ass, 47 smirked, turning to admire the  **beefy** , muscular thing, on display thanks to his ivory jock, was technically  **genetically engineered** to be the  **world’s most perfect ass** . He flexed his cut biceps, generous pecs bouncing in kind as he-

“47, I do regret giving those ‘Self-Love’ audio tapes, I worry it has unlocked some horrid in you.” Diana quipped. 

47 gave himself the decency to cough.

“Do you have eyes on me, Diana?”

“Let this be a casual reminder to disable the cameras on this floor, Agent 47. I believe the security room is actually back through the buffet area, and don’t you think they’d like a visit from Santa on Christmas Eve?” Diana added, an amused smile very clear through 47’s earpiece.

In the next moment 47 was sliding on the man’s deep red, incredibly festive suit, and moving out into the party as none other than the Christmas Legend himself. He paused to fold his suit, leaving it atop ‘Santa’s’ body, before pausing.

Wow. The suit was...it was the most comfortable thing 47 had worn in his entire life. He felt almost dazed as he grabbed the fake beard from the table, putting it on as he moved back into the party, drifting along the bufeetm the sugar cookies, gingerbread houses, and eggnog almost  **singing** to him as-

“Well, what’s with this?”

47 blinked.

Before him was...Santa. Another Santa. Weren’t only two hired for the entire party? Then who was-

“Ho, ho, ho! It looks like they double-booked us, friend.” The old man grinned, his cheeks clearly red from makeup, his beard more grey than white, looking much more like an actor than the Santa 47 had quietly taken this suit from.

“I’ll tell Marty you’ve got everything set up here, there’s enough kiddies downstairs that I’m sure he won’t mind a break! You tell the agency to let us know before sending someone else along without telling us, alright?” He winked, 47 nodding along mutely, mouth feeling so dry.

“Excellent work, 47. I’m not sure what you said to make the other impersonator leave, but no one suspects a thing.” Diana cheered into his ear.

“I guess he just...accepted I was Santa.” 47 replied, monotone voice not letting on how...strange he felt.

The guards in the security were, of course, delighted for a visit from Old Saint Nick himself, and while they were distracted opening the presents 47 had pulled out, fully wrapped and everything, from the bag the man he’d taken the suit from was carrying, 47 made quick work of shutting down and erasing the security system.

“Thanks Santa! I really thought I was on the ‘Naughty List’ this year.” The guard chuckled, almost childish, patting the back of his had against 47’s middle.

“Hey uh...aren’t you supposed to be...jolly?” The guard added, looking almost disappointed that he hadn’t found a bowl full of jelly jiggling under Santa’s suit.

“I mainly do the whole ‘Santa in July’ gig, you should see me in a swimsuit.”

“Cheeky tonight, 47. Do try and be a bit more jolly, though. Your target has arrived. Assume the position.” Diana chimed in, her speech sounding a bit...warmer than usual.

“Enjoying an ICA office party, Diana?”

“I am a consummate, 47.” Diana replied, followed by a long slurp of what was most certainly mulled wine.

Agent 47 settled his meaty ass on the red and gold throne set up for photos with Santa, spreading his thick, velvety thighs and settling his gloved hands on either side.

A clearly jovial Isiah Dubois and Annabelle Louis moved their way through the crowd, Miss Louis at least three drinks in, and Mr. Dubois looking snake-like behind his sober eyes. Agent 47 needed to do nothing more than pat both his thighs, and in a flash the two were seated.

The photographer counted down from 3, and in just as much time Agent 47 had grabbed and pricked Dubois with the poison syringe hidden in a coat pocket, covering up the jab with a quick pinch to his and Miss Louis’ sides. The pair laughed it off, getting up and moving to the camera to examine the photo.

“Excellent work, 47. Now, work your way to the ground floor, there’s a motorbike over the fence for your exit.” Diana said, the sound of cheering and laughing audible over her headset mic.

47 rose from his seat, making a few steps towards the converted break room before the buffet of Christmas sweets seemed to  **sing** to him. He could taste  **sugar** and  **warmth** on his tongue like he was drinking a thick glass of eggnog, like he was biting into a freshly baked cookie. It took all his willpower to pull himself away and back to where he’d dumped “Santa’s” unconscious form. Sliding out of the Santa getup and into his suit. Agent 47 couldn’t help but catch himself in the mirror. His naked form glowed under the dazzling lights outside the window. Shadows danced across his  **cut biceps** , his  **muscular pecs** , tracing down his  **slim waist** , and down his **rock-hard ass** . He looked impossibly fit when compared to the man snoozing at his feet. 47 threw his signature suit back on, fabric showing off every ounce of toned, muscular flesh, then neatly placed the Santa suit back onto the jolly fat man. Whoever he was, 47 was sure he’d hate to lose his suit. 

Suddenly, a wave of lethargy washed over the bald, middle-aged assassin. Why did he feel so... **bloated** ? 47 glided a hand over his hollow, fit stomach, listening to the suddenly noisy organ churn and gurgle. 

Christ, he was starving.

47 blinked at his own, gloved hand. He wasn’t sure when he’d arrived at the buffet in the Executive Suite’s main room, but he was not only standing before it with a fist full of cookies, but with a mouth full of them as well. 47 chewed and swallowed, the mass of dough landing like lead in his stomach, and it was like every pleasure center in his brain was lighting up. The cookies in his fist were immediately jammed into his mouth, the overly cheerful Christmas music playing over the party’s speakers sounding less grating and more...jolly. Festive. A piece of 47’s mind blinked back into reality as the agent felt his tight, toned stomach  **bulge** and  **round** out before him. 

47 gasped. It was like he was coming up for air after a dive, but instead of an energized swim, he was getting his first breath after several minutes of straight  **gorging** . The small mound of sugar cookies that had once decorated the buffet was now an empty platter. Several guests were looking at him, though apparently too polite to approach and intervene. The behavior wasn’t suspicious, as no one saw he as an assassin ready to take out a target. No, instead they saw a  **hungry** ,  **greedy** man eager to  **bloat** himself into-

47 muffled a belch.

He was full. Tight. 

**Stuffed.**

He’d never eaten this much in his life, let along an entire sitting. He looked down, blue eyes widening but stoic expression otherwise revealing nothing of the  **shock** he felt seeing his normally toned abs a stretched  **dome** of sugar, butter, and  **fat** . Both his gloved hands flew to it, rubbed up and down the  **tight** ,  **stretched** ,  **rock-hard mound** of his stomach. He couldn’t fit another ounce into it. Not one more-

**Gingerbread** .

As if looking down on himself, Agent 47 saw the muscular, fit, bald assassin grab one of the gingerbread houses off the buffet and bite into it with a feral, desperate  **hunger** . Demolishing the structure piece by piece, 47 then turned to the home’s inhabitants, demolishing three generations of a gingerbread family in less than five minutes. The lower button of 47 suit screamed in horror as his abs stretched further and further out, stomach churning, gurgling as the bald man stuffed in more and more of the sweet, decadent Christmas treats like a wild animal. 

He felt dizzy, eyes going glassy as 47 leaned back, cradling his belly and letting out a belch followed by a hiccup. The crowd watching him had turned away, through he could feel eyes on him. Heat burned in his cheeks, behind his gut, and...unfortunately lower. He felt heavy, slow,  **fat** . It looked like someone had taken a hairless Ken doll and popped a mound of snow-white marshmallow onto his front, then stretched his suit over it. Ivory belly fought for freedom behind the assassin’s button-up, his suit, the red tie only serving to highlight the sudden bulge of stuffed belly rounding out before 47’s ribcage.

47 stammered back, black shoes clacking against the floor. He tried to turn his head, as if spotting the elevator would break whatever spell he was under, but instead it only brought something more dangerous into his field of vision.

“Eggnog.”

“What was that, 47?” He heard Diana chime in, sounding confused, then concerned as she added, “47?!”

One gloved hand moved to his ear, turning the earpiece down as the other deftly grabbed, scooped up an entire punchbowl of rich, thick,  **golden** eggnog. 47’s eyes bulged as suddenly both hands were balancing it at his lips, mouth opening like a greedy, hungry, desperate void as his cheeks bulged, throat bobbed with the creamy, fatty,  **heavy** mixture. The brandy made his  **straining abs** feel  **warm** . His whole body  **tingled** with it, barely aware when the **lowest button** from his suit **gave up** the fight, snapping off with a soft gasp. Each gulp was a thousand years of bliss as 47’s stomach so  **perfectly ached** from sheer  **volume** of calories building out, stretching out inside him.

47 wiped twin rivers of cream from the sides of his mouth, hiccupping, only realizing with that action that he’d emptied the entire bowl, hearing it clatter at his feet and therefore summoning the attention of the entire party.

47 outright  **flushed** , a display of emotion otherwise unknown to him. Gazing at the slack-jawed wealthy before him 47’s heart thundered in his chest. His hands moved shakily to his gut, mouth falling open at what he saw when he looked down.

47 looked no less than  **massive** . His belly soared out before him, stretching and rounding akin to the mountainous mound one might imagine at 9 months of pregnancy. The last remaining button on his suit was holding on for dear life, the sharp bulge of belly beneath it, covered in a white button-up so stretched it was near translucent, flashing wide swaths of 47’s stretched-to-nonexistence abs. 47 hiccuped, belched, feeling growing heat in his crotch as people began to whisper to one another, no one noticing as Dubois grew dizzy, moving to sit nearby.

47 muffled another belch into his face. He felt hot. Tired. HIs brain fuzzy with brandy and sugar. He took a step back, only for his gut to lurch, his breath to grow short, stomach so swollen it was pressing on everything inside him. A hand shot beneath his gut, another balancing the small of his back as he  **waddled** to the elevator.

Collapsing back against its cool, metal doors, 47 let his head tip back, his eyes flutter closed as he rubbed up and down the endless curve of his overstuffed middle. Fuck. He was huge! Round. Fat. Jolly. 

Jolly?

47 panted, feeling his crotch tent, unable to stop himself from palming the raw, needy, sexual heat there. He couldn’t see his feet, the ground without leaning over the wide, furious bulge of his  **gut** . Both his hands moved to his lower back as 47 moved from the elevator, almost stumbling onto the main floor, trying to move, find the the exit.

And then he smelled more cookies.

“D-Diana?” 47 choked, mouth full of cookies, a few minutes later.

“47! Gods, you had me worried. Where are you? I’m trying to-”

“I’m still at the  **hurp** party.” 47 noted. He was huffing, puffing from fullness, stomach aching as both his hands moved to cradle it, tearing himself finally from the buffet, trying to find the nearest security camera.

“I’m trying to get eyes- Good lord, 47! I told you to eliminate the target, not swallow him whole!”

Unamused, 47 only stared into the camera, before a swarm of guards turned at the end of the hall. 47 quickly ducked into the nearby men’s room, locking the door behind him.

“Ah, well, it appears Dubois is down. Good work, 47, that’s one less nazi in the world. Let me find another way out, the entire museum is now on lockdown.”

47 barely heard the last of Diana’s words. He stumbled to the sink, both his hands gripping its edge. Sweat glistened, shining like stars along his forehead as he looked up at himself in the mirror. 

Then his angled, glass-cutting cheeks puffed.

“What in the-”

47 stomach  **gurgled** . The assassin straightened, watching in horror, awe, fascination,  **arousal** as his toned, tight, fit form suddenly began to  **change** . His tightly stuffed stomach deflated for a moment, only for a thin, then thick, then  **bugling** padding of dough to rise,  **smother** the lowest part of his six-pack, swelling up and over the edge of his suit pants, before tracing up, vanishing each of the hard-earned squares in seconds until a pot belly surged forward against 47’s button up. Love handles  **bloomed** at his sides, barely there kisses of stretch-marks lining them as they eagerly racing around his back, meeting at his spine before crafting a  **mass** of  **decadent** ,  **grabbable rolls** at the assassin’s sides. The last button on 47’s suit burst, the man’s pot belly quickly graduating to a  **mountainous gut** . This only seemed to embolden the man’s body, 47’s beefy pecs fattening into two,  **generous tits** which quickly found their home atop the man’s middle, threatening than bursting a button in the center of his shirt, revealing a  **deliciously biteable** mound of  **cleavage** . With a needy  **thump** , 47’s gut engorged itself onto the bathroom’s sink, the now-fat man’s lower back sighing with relief as his cock throbbed realizing just how  **heavy** he was getting. A second button followed the first, this time from the center of 47’s gut, exposing a cavernous navel to the normally hyper-fit man.

47 gasped, panted. He dabbed at his glistening forehead with the back of his hand, finding a whole new face staring back at him. Furious cheekbones now buried, full, round. Cut jawline smoothed out but a delicious puddle of eggnog. 47 leaned forward, heart pounding as he tried to get a better look at-

**RIP**

Agent 47 tried to turn his head, his once elegant neck now thick, meaty with fat, before simply giving up and turning, looking behind him in the mirror to-

Today was the wrong day to have worn a jockstrap.

Agent 47’s ‘genetically engineered perfect’ ass  **jiggled** with the small motion. Gloved hands reached behind him, hefting each cheek, finding the once-muscular mounds now a full, ripe peach pie. Soft and doughy, they bounced obscenely as he released them, the fabric of his suit torn completely, letting the barely kiss of Agent 47’s ass on display. His thighs had thickened below them, looking more like tree trunks than the powerfully muscled legs he’d had just a few moments ago. 47 looked down, unable to see anything around the mound of soft, white fat attached to him, though he could feel how his ankles had swelled, how his feet and toes had gone chubby in his shoes. Hell, even the fingers in his gloves felt like sausages squeezed into a casing. 

He was fat.

In just a few minutes he’d  **gorged himself fat** .

47?” Diana’s voice rang in, clearly trying to quickly sober up, “I’m doing my best to locate an exit, there might be-”

“Hm, hm, hm.” A deep, low voice interrupted.

“No need to worry about that, 47. Just come back to the elevator.” It added, sounding incredibly amused.

And then, 47 found himself waddling from the men’s room.

Most guards didn’t look twice at him, and those that did seemed more shocked at his size, the state of his suit, mesmerized by the way his belly bounced, bulged out before him like a bowl full of jelly. His gut bounced, a mist of swear appearing on his forehead from the seemingly endless walk from the bathroom to the elevator, the once-fit assassin resting both hands on his middle to help stable himself as he felt each of his wide, full cheeks rise and fall in hypnotizing synchronicity.

As he reached the silver doors, the opened on their own, revealing an almost equally wide, full,  **fat** figure, though instead of a black suit, this one was clad in red.

His gut was slightly rounder, wider, somehow  **fattier** than 47’s **,** with hips and thighs so wide 47 honestly was-

“Worried we both won’t fit? Don’t worry, 47, this contraption can hold up to 1,000 pounds! Between the two of us, we’re barely 650.” The man winked, then threw back his head with laughed, cheeks and chins wobbling beneath his beard as his belly shook, bounced.

47 felt his gut  **press** into the jolly fat man’s, his ass spread out against the metal wall behind him. The man turned to face him, their overfed, cookie-filled guts kissing with a force that made 47 flushed a bit deeper.

“Well now, knocking me out on my favorite day, wearing my suit,  **almost** having to totally take over my role - and on my favorite day of the year? That’s certainly naughty list behavior.” The man said, arching his back to  **squash** his and 47’s mountainous middles together, pressing 47’s fattened back further into the elevator’s walls.

“But, doing it to take out a nazi helps balance it out, so-” The man flicked a finger across his nose, and the elevator opened - revealing the outside of the front of the museum.

“Have a very, Merry Christmas, Agent 47.” The man smiled, apple-like cheeks rounding out his face as he motioned for 47 to step out.

The bald assassin did, looking down to find his overfed form suddenly clad in a tightly-fitting, bright red suit, with matching green tie.

“Try not to eat your way out of this one, or if you want to, make sure you do it tonight. I can’t promise they won’t covert to this-” The man said, giving his belly a slap, “If it’s not still Christmas.”

And the doors closed. And he was gone.

“47? Are you-”

“I’m out, Diana.”

“Oh gods, good. Excellent work, 47, I’ll-”   


“You’ll give me directions to the nearest buffet. I’m suddenly starving.”


End file.
